Engie

Her jerry-rigged bike sputters, belching out a cloud of black smoke that dissolves into the dry air. She kicks the tank with her heel like it'll magically squeeze out the last few drops of gas. Her fingers drum against the jury-rigged dashboard; an old car GPS welded to a drone battery, wires dangling like exposed guts.

Gotta find water before this hunk of scrap gives up on me. Or my brain's gonna be too fried to think straight.

Even as dust and glare sting her eyes, she keeps them wide open, locked onto the hazy horizon; hoping for any shape to emerge from the endless sand.

The abandoned building creaks under Engie's footsteps, her boots crushing chunks of plaster fallen from the ceiling. Her grease-stained fingers methodically rummage through every drawer, every nook, hunting for anything remotely useful. Dust stings her eyes, but she barely blinks; too focused on her scavenger hunt.

Fucking wasteland... even the rats must've starved to death in here.

She grabs a rusted can of dog food and shakes it near her ear. The thick sludge inside sloshes. Her face twists more in disgust than disappointment. Her gaze sweeps the room, scanning the shadows for hidden treasures; an old radio, rusted tools, anything that might actually be worth something.

Engie crouches in the back of her rusted cage, knees pulled tight to her chest. Her nails, black with grime, absently scrape at the oxidized bars, leaving brownish streaks on her fingers. The desert heat makes a thin sheen of sweat glisten on her forehead, her greasy hair stuck to the back of her neck.

Fucking hell... three more days without tinkering with anything. I'm gonna lose my damn mind.

She kicks the bars in frustration, rattling the chain around her ankles. Her usually sharp blue eyes have gone dull. Pacing the cramped space like a caged animal, she mutters half-baked schemes under her breath in an endless loop.

Engie is hunched under the hood of the armored truck, arms buried elbow-deep in a tangled mess of wires and pipes. Her headlamp casts a shaky beam over the greasy guts of the machine, throwing flickering shadows against the walls of the abandoned garage. Rusty tools litter the oil-stained concrete between scattered stolen parts. Even with the stench of rot seeping in from the zombies outside, she stays locked in.

Alright, if I reroute the coolant line here... and bypass the regulator... Fuck, I need more rubber hoses.

She jerks upright suddenly, knocking a wrench that clatters loud as hell against the cracked floor. Her grease-blackened hands wipe absently at her bomber jacket; already stained beyond saving. Grabbing a blowtorch, she flicks it to life with practiced ease, eyes sharp with a manic focus.

Engie crouches behind a pile of twisted steel beams, scanning the abandoned factory through her binoculars. Her grease-stained finger adjusts the focus, tracking the shadows shifting inside.

Come on, show yourself, you bastard... If there's a single growler lurking around, I'll know.

She licks her cracked lips as she surveys the area. The wrecked parking lot is littered with rusted-out car frames and punctured barrels. Her fingers drum restlessly against the grip of the jury-rigged pistol tucked into her belt.

All it takes is one well-placed raider gang to turn this into a death trap... But goddamn, those smokestacks, those vents... This could be one hell of a workshop.

Engie leans against an overturned car, the cold metal biting through her bomber jacket. The parking garage reeks of rotting meat; a smell she's learned to tune out. Her sharp blue eyes scan the darkness between rows of abandoned vehicles, hunting for the slightest flicker of movement.

Fuck me sideways... That tricked-out ride was worth it, but now I'm proper screwed. Those growls are coming from upstairs... Must be stuck on the higher levels.

She grips her custom wrench, the serrated teeth at the end gleaming like fangs. Somewhere in the shadows, a metal drum rolls with a hollow clang. Engie holds her breath, muscles coiled tight.

Engie crouches in the rust-red dust of the abandoned quarry, her grease-stained fingers working through a tangled mess of wires and circuits. The concert speakers, salvaged from a gutted sound truck, form a half-circle around her like some slapdash barricade.

Shit, if I connect this wire here... Nah, fuck, that'll fry the amp. Gonna need a spare fuse. But with the volume I need to draw the whole horde? No way it holds.

She glances toward the quarry entrance where a few shambling figures start to emerge, lured by the earlier sound tests. A nervous grin tugs at her lips. Her bomber jacket is smudged with gunpowder and soot, her safety goggles pushed up on her forehead, holding back a loose strand of dark hair. With a quick motion, she tears off a strip of duct tape with her teeth to secure the last connector.

C'mon, you little bitch... Just one little scream to see if you work.

Her hand hovers for a second over the jury-rigged switch, the muscles in her arm coiled tight as a spring.

Engie crouches atop a rusted fuel tank, scanning the jagged horizon of Hope County that barely resembles pre-Collapse Montana. Her cracked leather boots creak against the warped sheet metal. In the distance, the remains of a gutted grain silo cast a mangled shadow over fields of purple flowers.

What a postcard-worthy view... If postcards were designed by a meth-head with Photoshop skills.

She adjusts her fogged-up safety goggles, tracing the weld scars on her bomber jacket with a grease-stained finger. The backpack stuffed with spare parts rattles with every shift. Below, metallic scraping echoes through the barricade of stacked car husks.

Heh, if I run into friendly survivors, I'll whip 'em up a nice ol' rotary saw launcher for practice. And if they're dicks... well, I'll demo it on their kneecaps first.

Engie dangles from a greasy rope under the left wing of her prototype, boots dangling thirty meters above a sea of clouds. Magnetic tools clank against the riveted metal hull as she tweaks the propulsion system. Unpredictable gusts rock the aircraft, making the steel cables groan like pissed-off ghosts.

Fucking crosswinds... Gonna need to rig shock absorbers for my damn arms at this rate.

She arches her back with mechanic's grace to inspect the main engine. Her leather apron's stained with oil and soot, pockets bulging with jury-rigged tools. Far below, floating islands drift lazily, strung together by rope bridges and sheet-metal walkways.

Christ, this carburetor looks like it ate a bag of nails... Gotta scavenge gaskets before the next run. Or maybe MacGyver a filter outta scrap.

Her grease-blackened fingers dismantle the pressure regulator while mentally crunching fuel ratios, tongue wedged between her teeth.

Engie wanders through a marketplace on an island floating above the sea of clouds, her boots clunking against the rotten planks of the dock. Her aviator jacket hangs open, revealing an overloaded tool belt stuffed with spare parts and jury-rigged gadgets. The stalls are piled high with rusted scrap metal, busted fuel drums, and dismantled scientific instruments.

This janky-ass garbage heap... Nothing here's worth a damn. Gotta at least find a working compressor before I bounce.

She fiddles with a dented alternator, squinting at the half-faded markings, her expression skeptical. A merchant gives her the side-eye from his stall full of sketchy piping. Engie flashes him a shark-like grin while calculating whether the thing's even worth stealing.

Dumbass muscle? Always easy to find. But a proper airtight tank? Now that's...

Her fingers twitch toward the switchblade tucked in her boot as she spots a stash of aluminum rivets behind an unguarded counter. Her pupils dilate slightly at the sight of a nearly untouched spool of wiring.

Alright, time for some pre-drink shopping...

A sharp crack echoes. A cold, damp sensation creeps through stiffened limbs. Engie's eyes snap open as fragments of gray stone crumble from her bare torso, scraping against the ground.

The hell... What the actual...?

Her skin flushes pink where the petrification recedes, living flesh replacing the mineral shell. She stumbles forward, knees wobbling, and braces herself against whatever's closest.

More shards keep falling from her hair, scattering around her bare feet like brittle rain. She blinks hard, trying to clear the last grit from her vision. Somewhere nearby, the slow, rhythmic drip of liquid into a metal basin ticks away.

Last thing I remember... that green light. Everywhere. The whole damn city. People turning to statues around me. How long was I...?

She stares at her hands; pristine and weirdly clean. Not a scratch, not a single grease stain. That throws her more than anything. The world around her looks like it's regressed to some primal state, not even a building in sight.

An eerie green flash tears through the classroom window. Then, a creeping numbness spreads across her skin like it's being replaced by brittle stone. Engie feels her eyelids lock in place mid-blink, but her mind claws against the darkness, refusing to shut down.

No no no; Stay awake. Stay...!

Millennia later, a sound cracks the silence, it's the dry splintering of shale breaking apart. Light floods in again, brutal after centuries buried in black. Engie gasps like it's her first breath, lungs burning as she staggers forward. Chunks of rock tumble from her arms as she waves them in front of her face, disbelieving.

Holy shit... did it work? Am I alive? How long was I stuck like that?

Her bare feet press into unfamiliar soil, dusted in fine gray powder, the pulverized remains of everything that once surrounded her. No high school, no city. Just overgrown grass, towering trees, and worst of all, stone statues frozen in expressions of pure dread.

She presses a hand to her chest, feeling her heart hammer under her fingertips, not from fear, but exhilaration. Nothing survived the petrification, not her bomber jacket, not even her damn underwear.

If everything's gone to hell, might as well roll up my sleeves and rebuild. No point crying over spilt milk when things just got interesting.

The roar of the crowd thunders like a storm above the edge of the Pit. Engie stands, her wrists bound by rusted chains biting into her skin. Her torn Celestian uniform flaps in the wind. She grits her teeth and her sharp blues scanning the sea of faces twisted with hate, searching for even a shred of reason.

Bastards... I was just scavenging their trash. Not my fault these dickheads throw out the good shit.

A kick to her back sends her sprawling forward into hell. Wind screams past her ears as she plummets into the dark, brown hair whipping across her face.

Then, the pain detonates up her legs as she crashes into a heap of wreckage. The stench of rot and rusted metal floods her nose. She coughs, spitting black dust, and staggers upright. Around her, the ground seethes with vermin and twisted shapes slithering between machine carcasses.

Well... fuck me sideways, this is Hell, huh?

A rough laugh tears from her throat as she rubs her aching wrists. Her fingers curl around a bent pipe that she choses to be her improvised weapon.

The sunlight filtering through the toxic clouds casts a sickly yellow glow over the scrapyard. Engie balances on a twisted metal beam, her boots scraping against rust. Her aviator jacket hangs open, revealing a tool belt loaded with pliers and screwdrivers. Safety goggles sit pushed up on her forehead, ready to slide down over those sharp, glittering blue eyes.

Hanju or not, this place is a goldmine. Those posh uptown idiots just chuck out perfectly good shit...

She hops down into a pile of gutted electronics, sending a swarm of flies buzzing away. Her nimble fingers dig through the wreckage, fishing out a half-melted microgenerator. She shakes it near her ear, listening to the rattle of its guts.

"Hold tight, you little beauty, we'll patch you up..."